uthorities at White Lodge. It sure
would be a reg'lar bombshell in the case right now."

The trader's squat figure, in his black suit, against the white
background made by the lamp, made the girl think of a huge, grotesque
blot of ink. His broad, hairy hand rested on the table. She noticed the
strong, thick fingers, devoid of flexibility, yet evidently of terrific
strength.

"Now you and me," went on Talpers, "could get quietly married, and I
could sell this store of mine for a good figger, and I'd be willin' to
move anywheres you want--San Francisco, or Los Angeles, or San Diego, or
anywheres. And I could burn up that letter, and there needn't nobody
know that the wife of Bill Talpers was mixed up in the murder that is
turnin' this here State upside down. Furthermore, jest to show you that
Bill Talpers is a square sort, I won't ever ask you myself jest how deep
and how wide you're in this murder, nor why you wrote that letter, nor
what it was all about. Ain't that fair enough?"

The girl laughed.

"It's too fair," she said. "I can't believe you'd hold to such a
bargain."

"You try me and see," urged Bill. "All you've got to do is to say you'll
marry me."

"Well, I'll never say it."

"Yes, you will," huskily declared Bill, putting his hat on the table.
"You'll say it right here, to-night. Your stepfather's sick, I hear. If
he was feelin' his best he wouldn't be more'n a feather in my way--not
more'n that Chinaman of yours. I've got to have your word to-night, or,
by cripes, that letter goes to White Lodge!"

The girl was alarmed. She was colorless as marble, but her eyes were
defiant. Talpers advanced toward her threateningly, and she retreated
toward the door which opened into the other room. Bill swung her aside
and placed himself squarely in front of the door, his arms outspread.

"No hide and seek goes," he said. "You stay in this room till you give
me the right answer."

The girl ran toward the door opening into the kitchen. Talpers ran after
her, clumsily but swiftly. The girl saw that she was going to be
overtaken before reaching the door, and dodged to one side. The trader
missed his grasp for her, and pitched forward, the force of his fall
shaking the cabin. He struck his head against a corner of the table, and
lay unconscious, spread out in a broad helplessness that made the girl
think once more of spilled ink.

The white-haired man stood in the doorway to the other room. He held a
revolver, wit